Know Yourself
by Lamby
Summary: A young English girl learns she is a mutant, but the price of that knowledge is set murderously high.
1. 01

A fifteen-year-old English girl learns she is a mutant, but the price of that knowledge is set murderously high...  
  
Disclaimer: Not making any money from this...  
  
A/N: Dedicated to Icelynx, for asking me to write this one, cheers my friend! Oh and football = soccer to all you Americans out there. Reviews always appreciated, except flames, which can go to hell where no doubt they will be welcome.  
  
01  
  
In the middle distance, a school bell chimed discordantly, only to be stoically ignored by the small band of teenagers, chilling with a football by the bus stop. Unusually for the north of England, the sky above was clear and blue, the four pupils' black school blazers finding a new lease of life as makeshift goalposts. The grass had been recently cut on the small, scrappy piece of council-maintained lawn that passed for the local park. The grass clippings were slowly browning in the afternoon sunshine, like hay matting on top of the green, smelling sweet above the polluted, oppressive atmosphere. Traffic buzzed past indifferently, nobody rushing overly in the pleasant weather, no one interested in the truanting kids. Briefly a spluttering, orange-painted, diesel bus sprawled in advertising posters pulled into the lay-by, to let a little old woman with a shopping basket disembark. Its doors sluiced shut again as she scowled disapprovingly in the teenagers' direction, before tootling off to the old mill town's weekly open-air market.  
  
The only girl in the group of teenagers laughed melodiously; not phased in the slightest by the old woman's obvious condemnation of her and her friends. A slight fifteen-year-old, she perched on a low red brick wall. Kicking back absently, her black shoe heels clipped the mortar, dislodging clumps of fluffy emerald moss. She wore her uniform's knee-length, grey pleated, cotton skirt rolled up at the waistband to a length at best described as mid-thigh, and at worst indecently short. Her white school shirt was untucked and unbuttoned at neck and waist, mottled with grass stains like army camouflage up her left arm. Her school tie was striped red and gold, tied in a chunky knot, and made her own with pin badges depicting her allegiances in football and music. Her red hair she wore in a scruffy, tangled, knot of curls at the base of her neck. But it was the girl's big brown eyes that could take your breath away. Deep and soulful, there was something intangible about how troubled and lost they seemed, set in stark contrast to her laughter in the sunshine. It was almost as if, even as one so young, she was carrying dark secrets she'd share with no one.  
  
"Oh, nice shot Anderson!" She teased one of the boys sarcastically, as he sliced the ball into the branches of a nearby tree. "My Irish Grandma could do better than that, and she's been dead three years!"  
  
"Oi, shut it Laura." Danny Anderson grinned, wagging a finger at his friend. "You're not big and you're not clever." She stuck her tongue out at him, folding her arms, as always defensive about her diminutive size.  
  
"And you're the laziest goalie ever, too, Laura..." Mikey grumbled, poking the ball out of the tree with a long-ago broken branch. The final lad, Tom, caught the once-white football easily, beginning a sequence of flamboyant tricks and skills with the ball. Nobody paid any attention.  
  
"Aww, I hate being in nets." Laura moaned, climbing down off the wall and going to the two piles of blazers, stretching and rolling back her skinny shoulders industriously.  
  
"So go get yourself some girly mates, Williams, then you wont have to." Tom quipped, passing the ball with a smooth kick to Danny. "How come you never hang out with the girls anyway?"  
  
"Cause I'm a bitch and they can't cope with it." The slim redhead smiled, bouncing slightly on her toes, ready for Danny's curling shot this time. She dived full length to save it, her fingertips barely brushing the ball around the imaginary goalpost. But she was to far gone by then in the motion to pull up from the dive, her own momentum sending her tumbling gracefully to the floor, adding grass stains on her right arm to match the ones on her left.  
  
Out of the blue, as she tried to recover herself, a shadow fell across her that was cold and dark. Even before she looked up, Laura's stomach plummeted, and she tasted bile. Call it an instinctive guilty reaction, she was proved justified as she squinted up at the silhouette stood over her.  
  
"Lying down on the job, Laura? Not finding skiving off too taxing are we?" The sardonic twang of her IT teacher, Mr Greenwood. Slowly she got to her knees, stood, and brushed down the back of her skirt. Unbidden, the lads came and stood besides her, mates united against their common foe. The teacher sneered coldly at his errant pupils, not unlike an alligator greeting his prey.  
  
"Doesn't you're being here mean you're skiving too?" Laura replied audaciously, making the teacher scowl. His dour reaction made Laura wish briefly she had better control of her tongue, but she always had been too good at the whole 'open-mouth, insert-foot' scenario. True to form, her teacher reacted with a starburst of needy authority, voice strict and eyes angry.  
  
"It would do you good to keep a civil tongue in that pretty head of yours, Laura Williams. And I think you'll find you're all late for a very serious appointment with the Headmaster, so if you don't mind..." Mark Greenwood indicated that the teenagers precede him back to the school building.  
  
"Mutey." Mikey muttered, as Danny almost shoulder-barged the teacher out of his way. Mark Greenwood turned an angry shade of purple, knowing full well that to be called a 'mutey' by these kids was currently the lowest form of insult. There was no truth in it; he was as human as any of them. In fact there were no mutants at this school, or any other in the district. Nationally, the very idea of mutants even existing was still contestable, more than one cynical Brit saying as usual it was just the Yanks blaming everything that was wrong with their country on something they couldn't control. Mark had no opinion on the matter, but the kids had taken it to heart, establishing an insult that meant you were lower than low, cursed, diseased, a mutant...  
  
Laura followed the lads and their teacher at a short distance, though she did not hang back consciously, or out of cowardice. Her palms were tingling with anxious anticipation, her stomach churning and hot. Somewhere inside of her, a small voice was urging her to keep calm, keep control, though of what was not apparent. She kept her beautiful eyes firmly on the pale paving flags of the path, trying not to be aware of the rustling dry leaves on the few scattered young saplings. She wondered if she'd looked at the sun too long when squinting up at Mr Greenwood, as her vision speckled and tinted orange. Absently, she coughed dryly, wondering as she did why all she could taste was steam; all she could smell was ash... 


	2. 02

Disclaimer: Not making any money from this...  
  
02  
  
The increasingly callous teacher marched his errant charges the long way round to the Head's office, past window upon window of their classmates, making examples of them before all the gawping faces and gossiping giggles. Laura fought not to blush, uncomfortable with all these eyes on her, knowing that the girls in her class would make her life hell over this. Her palms clenched by her sides, she was distracted by flickering vision she could not explain, orange specks glowing in the corners of her eyes.  
  
Darkness closed in about them, as at last the small group entered the relative privacy of the school's dark foyer. A secretary clacked noisily away at her computer, peering at the dusty screen over her glasses. There was a low buzz of conversation behind the staff room door, as those members of the teaching body without scheduled classes drank coffee and pre-loaded on nicotine. The Head's door was shut, brown enamel foreboding. Without a word, Mr Greenwood indicated they make themselves comfortable, before going into the office to brief the Head.  
  
The exceptionally low-slung 'comfy' chair seemed to want to swallow the redhead up as she sat, considering that for all their attempts to be normal people, teachers really weren't. It had to be some deliberate ploy, having these chairs so near the ground, so any teacher needing an ego-trip could come stand over kids in trouble, and gloat at how much better than the teenagers they were.  
  
Tom was soon impatiently bouncing the football on the floor between his feet, receiving evil looks from the secretary as he did. Danny and Mikey leant back in their chairs obnoxiously, as still Mr Greenwood did not reappear. The two boys folded their arms, and glowered at everyone who passed from under dark eyelashes. Laura didn't dare break the lengthy silence, leaning forward with her hands on her lap. Little footsteps of flames seemed to flicker up her spine, making her shudder, though the sensation was not a hundred percent unpleasant. Her mind drifted improbably, trying to find a place inside her where no worries could trouble her, and where no secrets betrayed her...  
  
The sound of Mr Greenwood leaving the office, and a single authoritative shout of "Enter" from the Head shattered her moment of peace. With dread and heavy limbs all four teens lurched to their feet, but Mr Greenwood's hand on Laura's shoulder stopped her in her tracks.  
  
"Sit Laura, he's not ready for you yet." She was being singled out? How unfair was that? The teenage girl writhed away from the teacher, tutting her disapproval, but sitting nonetheless, and letting her blazer drop to the floor again. She was forced to wait, feeling warmer and more agitated as she heard the Head's voice ranting at her friends. It would do no good, the very next time they were supposed to be in French, the boys would be out playing football again, and Laura had a sneaking suspicion that the Head knew this too.  
  
"Laura!" The Headteacher's call came again from behind the ominous door, as it opened to release her friends. Danny and Mikey shot her conspirative, cocky smiles, but Tom just looked at her sympathetically. Then they were gone, stewarded off to class, where they were supposed to be, by Mr Greenwood. Laura stood, shrugging on her blazer and brushing fine wisps of hair away from her brow.  
  
The Head was sat behind his desk in front of the window, which was masked with mint-green vertical blinds. A balding man in blue shirt and tie, buttons bursting across his front, he didn't look up as Laura collapsed into the seat opposite him. Absently, still not looking at the girl, he fingered his collar away from his neck. Edward Fitzgerald wondered if he was going down with something? How had it got so warm in here suddenly? Reaching blindly behind him, he opened the window, letting in the breeze and the sound of traffic streaming past. A group of cross-country runners jogged by, dressed in the gold of the PE department, chattering, before finally the Head turned to the nervously waiting redhead.  
  
"Laura Williams, Year Eleven, Form Beta, you have your GCSE exams in a few weeks." It wasn't a question, but Laura nodded anyway. She didn't like this one bit, watching the sweat run down her Headmaster's bald brow, her blood slowly boiling. "I see you were one of the top of your year last year, straight A grades." Again not a question, and Laura folded her arms defensively, the dry paper of her permanent file rustling alluringly like tinder. He knew very well who she was, why was he bringing all this up again? "We first met when you were thrown off the girl's football team at the start of term for fighting, am I right?"  
  
"I can't help being competitive..." Laura started stubbornly, but was cut off.  
  
"You nearly put a member of your own team in hospital. You were lucky her parents didn't press charges." Finally he met her eyes, but the anger in her glare was somehow uncomfortable to watch, like staring at the sun. He lasted but a few seconds before he looked back at the file. "And then the slip begins. You stopped taking notes in class, ceased handing in homework. I had numerous complaints from your teachers, but on investigation your grades were still excellent, so we had to the lapse slide, thinking you would grow out of it. You haven't."  
  
"I know what I'm doing. I don't need to take notes. I just remember stuff really, really well." Laura was exasperated, telling the absolute truth. She'd always had an excellent memory, could remember stuff from way back when she had still lived in Ireland, when she'd been less than two years old. She knew, in some small corner of her mind, that the good grades she got at school were in part cheating, and she didn't always understand the things she knew. But if all she was ever asked to do in an exam was write down what someone had told her, she'd get damn near-perfect scores every time. But her answer was not the one the Head wanted to hear.  
  
"It has been considered," He spoke louder, as if Laura were suddenly deaf, pushing his authority. "That perhaps you have been lucky in your friends, that good students may be helping you, for want of a better word, cheat. But we have no proof, and your current crop of associates begs more than one question of that theory."  
  
"What's wrong with my friends?" Laura demanded, scowling, hands gripping the edge of the desk so hard it made her knuckles white.  
  
"Well, if all you ever want to aspire to is alcoholism, and being a single young mother, nothing I suppose. We know all about your recent police warning for underage drinking. With your grades I would have expected more than that..."  
  
"But I thought you said I was cheating to get those grades?" Mr Fitzgerald ignored her comment, adhering to that last ounce of control over her, showing that he needn't ever answer to her.  
  
"Or should that be with the grades you were achieving, for now you have slipped into truanting, the marks you are bothering to turn up to get are fading fast." Laura was abashed a little at that despite herself, it was common sense, she couldn't memorise things she wasn't there for. But the Head wasn't done, eyeing up the redhead for his killer blow.  
  
"You have been warned enough times about your attitude and behaviour. The school has run out of patience with you, Laura. Unless you can come up with a very good reason why your behaviour has disintegrated along with your grades, I'm afraid detention wont be enough of a punishment."  
  
"What do you mean?" Laura stuttered, but her question wasn't clear enough.  
  
"I mean, is there something going on elsewhere, problems at home maybe, that are causing you upset? Often changes in behaviour like this are a cry for help of sorts." His voice softened, and he was suddenly a lot less threatening. "Laura? You would tell us if there was something wrong?"  
  
"There's nothing wrong." Laura answered too quickly, pulling back her hands from the desk, and folding her arms defensively. "What are you going to do to me?"  
  
"I'm afraid I will be ringing your father, and advising him that if you do not wish to attend lessons, then there is no point in you being here. You are suspended from school until further notice." 


	3. 03

Disclaimer: Not making any money from this...  
  
03  
  
It was with a heavy heart that Laura left the school grounds, long before the other pupils would be released from their lessons. She'd just skipped French for crying out loud! It shouldn't have been the end of the world, but now... She felt cold despite the warmth of the hazy afternoon, feet dragging, scuffing her shoes as she walked. The smell of the hot asphalt of the pavement was sickening, the blazer tied around her waist kept coming undone, but she'd no bag to put it in. Fresh dirt under her fingernails felt gritty like ash, the smog of a busy town clinging to her soft skin.  
  
She walked on autopilot, the route home taking her past all the places she knew, that she'd spent most of her life around. She didn't see any of it, didn't notice the car that had to screech to a halt to avoid killing her, as she crossed a side-street between the butchers and the laundrette without looking. The driver swore at Laura horrifically, shaking his fist. Laura didn't flinch, just looked at him with haunted eyes, and then carried on.  
  
She turned into the cul-de-sac on the modern red brick development, wondering if they'd still let her sit her GCSEs? Could the school stop her from taking them? What if she left school with no qualifications? Her parents, they would be so disappointed in her. What was she supposed to do with her life?  
  
Home was, to Laura, an unadventurous detached new-build, red brick with white PVC windows and door. The lawn was her father's pride and joy; cut in stripes with precision like some premiership football pitch. Not that Laura was allowed to play football on the lawn... The flowerbeds were weed and blossom-free, bare black soil with the exception of a few straggly, woody roses, with droopy petals in pink and yellow. The garage was huge, tagged on the side of the building almost as an afterthought, filled with clutter even as the drive was swamped with cars.  
  
Laura stopped abruptly in the middle of the street, eyes clouding over with betrayed tears. Nothing moved, there was no sound, as she stood there just looking at the cars. The silver Peugeot was her Irish mother's little run- around. It shouldn't have been here anyway; she was supposed to be at work. The red Ferrari parked next to it was not Laura's father's, the redhead could have screamed aloud to see it parked there. She'd promised, damn it! Her mother had promised she'd called it off with that vile man!  
  
Laura' s house key was quickly in her warm fingers, as she strode angrily up the tarmac drive. The key was her weapon, the paintwork on the supercar no match for the venom with which she attacked it, dragging the sharp metal point from tail to nose along the driver's side. Red paint flaked off in tiny slivers, turning black and charred as it touched the teenager's hand. Laura didn't notice, didn't even look back to admire her vandalism, as she put the key to its proper use and let herself in.  
  
Hardwood floors and broad-leaved pot plants gleamed in tidy perfection in the hallway. The shoe rack by the door was where she was meant to leave her muddy footwear, but Laura wasn't in the mood. No one was about; the door to the living room stood open and the TV was stuck on a news channel. Her shoes left brown prints on the cream carpet as she entered. Laura was her parents' only child, her picture proudly above the fireplace in the front room. At least in the picture she looked like she still had something to smile about...  
  
"...The US in turmoil today after another supposed mutant went on the rampage in the Salem region of upstate New York." Briefly Laura was distracted from her own problems by the amateur camera footage of a huge man, dressed in outrageous bright red armour, throwing a pick-up truck at a bank building. Nothing seemed to faze the mutant; bullets from local police didn't hurt him. The newscaster continued her commentary. "Identified by local sources as Cain Marco, but calling himself Juggernaut, he proceeded to rob the bank, only finally arrested when a freak gust of wind seemed to tug off his helmet, at which point he stopped dead in his tracks. The White House has no explanation for what seems to be..."  
  
Laughter from behind the closed kitchen door interrupted the broadcast, followed by a husky male voice, and a flirtatious reply in a familiar Irish lilt. Laura felt a sharp sob cut through her gut, and she sprinted upstairs, desperate for the security of her own room. She slammed her bedroom door loudly; knowing it would reverberate through the building, let her mother know her betrayal had been discovered all over again...  
  
At the back of the house, her room was a classic second bedroom. Thick fluffy blue carpet was strewn with teenage possessions; Laura had to kick a rollerblade across her zodiac rug to get into the sanctuary. She had no idea where its mate was, had never been a tidy person. The walls were painted a buttercup yellow, but hidden behind ream upon ream of posters and magazine clippings. Most boasted pictures of assorted young men, maybe footballers, musicians or film stars. All were suitably dark-eyed and attractive, lop-sided grins and troubled pouts well represented, every one of them looked like trouble.  
  
Her stereo was on top of her desk; she swiped scattered novels and pens away to get at it. The cheesy pop CD inside she cranked up too loud, the cheery lyrics contrasting with her mood, not quite drowning out the laughter from below. Emotionally exhausted, the teenager collapsed dramatically on her belly on her bed, crying amongst her teddies and a fluffy blue throw. Sobs chased through her small frame rapidly, catching in her throat. She was so betrayed, so alone, in her tears she almost missed the front door opening again unexpectedly.  
  
Suddenly the front door slammed shut, and Laura lifted her head. She knew something was very wrong; her father wasn't due home until much later. Her mother seemed equally caught unawares, screamed in surprise as her husband caught her in the arms of another man in the marital home. Her father started shouting, and even though she did not want to, Laura could hear everything. He dared his wife to explain herself, his broken-heartedness obvious in his strangled voice. Raised voices, arguing, her mother's lover trying to leave, anger from her parents, each directing the blame at the other. Her name was mentioned, the argument taking a violent swerve.  
  
"You callous, ignorant woman! You don't love me anymore, that's one thing, but what about our daughter? Have you thought what it might do to Laura to find out about this?" For a moment, blistering silence, followed by cold, hard words. "You bitch! She knows, doesn't she? You made my baby girl hide this from me!"  
  
"Daddy..." Laura sobbed, tears running hot down her face. The palms of her hands prickled. What had she done? This was her fault, if she hadn't got suspended, her dad wouldn't have come home early... In her belly dragon's fire itself began to consume her, eating her from the inside out.  
  
"You weren't here for her to hide it from you!" Laura's mother screamed, picking up a vase, and throwing it at the wall by her husband in a sheer rage that he might challenge her so. It smashed, making Laura jump as she pulled herself into a sitting position, legs pulled tight to her as she rocked back and forth on the bed. Her head throbbed with anger, hatred, upset, and most of all betrayal.  
  
"She's been truanting, fighting, drinking! The school rang me; they've suspended her today! The Head rang me at work, he asked me there and then if there was anything going on at home to explain her behaviour! Of course, I didn't know what was going on here..."  
  
"Are you saying I'm not a fit mother?" Laura's mother shrieked like a banshee. "Look at me damn it! Are you saying I'm not good enough? That all this is my fault?"  
  
"Mama..." Laura wailed, shaking her head, tears evaporating as soon as they touched her broiling skin. Nobody heard her, nobody came. The covers on the bed charred and blackened around her, heat sweeping the room in a visible wave of disrupted air. The shiny laminate skins on her posters suddenly bubbled and charred, the pictures twisted and deformed, flaking from the walls in blackened chunks. The CD player stopped, warped and broken by the force of the heat. The smell of melting plastic challenged that of the smouldering, smoking carpet to make Laura cough and splutter. She couldn't move, couldn't see, and couldn't breathe.  
  
Spontaneous flames swept the room door aside in an explosion of power. Red, gold and orange, the fire Laura created surged through the house like a demon. To her, it was like being the centre of a star, fire flew all around her, burning, destroying. Beautiful, deadly, hotter than hell, it begged and played and flirted around her, a living beast she had created. But, as though in slow motion, Laura sat, calm now and empty, unharmed in the midst of the maelstrom.  
  
The sound of shattering glass like a wave as the fire reached the front door. In the kitchen the arguing stopped. Screams of outright terror, screams of the dying greeted the wave of fire and flame. Then, after a while, all was quiet... 


	4. 04

Disclaimer: Not making any money from this...  
  
A/N: Apologies in advance to anyone squeamish out there.  
  
04  
  
She'd blacked out, exhausted, spent, consumed by the flames she'd created. When she woke again, it was dark, but she couldn't tell how much of it was the time of day or night, or how much was due to the thick clinging smoke that filled the air. Cold, and somehow, almost ridiculously, hungry, it was like waking from one dream to another. In some way, this was obviously her room, and yet there was nothing left of how it should be. The soft furnishings still burnt, the wooden furniture too, a testament to how hot the blaze had been. All was black; all was broken, including Laura.  
  
Her clothes were reduced to rags, and she couldn't pinpoint the source of the flashing blue lights, strange siren noises from outside. It just didn't make sense. What was she? How had she done this? There was not a mark on her, not blisters or burns, not even flying shrapnel from exploding ornaments had cut her soft skin. Almost like the blaze had been protecting her...  
  
A whooshing noise was a fire hose spraying water at her parent's bedroom window down the hall, and suddenly Laura crashed back to reality. She'd killed her own family...  
  
She had to get out. Terror swept her and from it she gathered the strength to stand, though her legs wobbled and her lip quivered. Aching joints and exhausted muscles screamed at her every step as she tried to get to the window. Tugging at the handle, it took her a few moments to realise that the plastic was warped and swollen. It wasn't going to open, and she didn't have the strength to smash it. For a moment despair overtook her and she wished the fire had killed her too...  
  
She had to live. She had to escape, to carry on. Instinct took over. The authorities were on the cul-de-sac, at the front of her house. She could see through the blackened glass that there was nobody at the rear. The kitchen had a door to the garden. That was the way she needed to go.  
  
She walked down the stairs with her fingers brushing the still-burning wallpaper. The flames danced up again, brighter and stronger, as she touched them without fear or even half a thought. Everything was wrong, ashen and crisp, silent and bizarre in the dancing firelight, flashing beacons from outside. The kitchen door hung off its hinges. The bodies lay charred on the stone-flagged floor.  
  
"Mama... Daddy..." A child's cry, alone and scared Laura faced what she had done. Dropping hard on her knees, emotions too strong to describe, she hugged her mother's broken body. A thud at the door was the firemen trying to break in, after long hours of fighting a blaze stronger than they had ever seen, taking the battle to the fire. Laura pulled away sharply from the charred corpse, its blackened skin peeling off to reveal sharp redness underneath, eyes closed and face blank. The firemen entered in breathing equipment and full flameproof suits, dragging the hose in with them. The heat was still intense, destruction as bad as any of them had ever seen. If any of them had held out hopes for survivors, they were dashed like waves against a rock at the sight of the three bodies on the kitchen floor, cooling in the breeze of the open back door...  
  
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx  
  
Seven years later...  
  
The rain was falling so heavily she could have been walking underwater. Heavy, crystal drops, like beads of glass, caught and twisted what little light penetrated the crushing black clouds above. All sounds were muffled, dimmed, from the traffic in the distance to her own stride on the uneven path. Alone, there was no other living soul out in this terrible northern English weather. Much as she hated to be cold and wet, she could not have wished for a more perfect day.  
  
Abruptly the young woman turned off the puddle-strewn path, her black boot heels squelching through the muddy, unkempt grass. Her long red hair was plastered to her brow and cheekbones; so drenched the weight of the water was pulling her unruly curls straight. Brown eyes glinted full of tears that would not fall. Soft rose lips breathed hard, gasping against the suffocating emotions she felt, delicate hands shaking as she found what she had come here to seek.  
  
A single tombstone, much like all the others in this expanse of graveyard. A grey arc of granite, inscribed with two names. The grass grew long around it, scattered with autumn leaves in red and gold like fire. No one visited here, and she had never before had the courage to come back...  
  
Wrapping her arms around her as a defence from both outer and inner cold, the mutant hid behind the upturned collar of the battered brown trench coat she wore. Not her coat, it was large enough to fit a tall man, drenched her like the rain, but at least it kept her warm. Lost in her thoughts, tugged at by her swamping memories, the girl who'd been a thief didn't sense her mentor's approach until he was with her.  
  
#Blaze, # Charles Xavier, secured half the world away in the machine called Cerebro, greeted his newest X-Man carefully; well aware of how much she was hurting. #Laura, you could not help what happened... #  
  
"Forgive me..." Blaze muttered, not to Xavier but to the silent stone that marked her parents' grave. "I'm sorry, forgive me..."  
  
#Its time you forgave yourself, Laura. # Xavier told her soothingly. His pride and support of her, of what she was trying to do here, setting her ghosts to rest, was comforting like the coat around her. #Let it go. And come home... #  
  
He pulled away then, gently allowing her to let her grief be washed away by the cleansing rain. The billowing wind swept the bare trees, her long hair and the trench coat into a frenzy, chilled her to the bone. Blaze paid it no heed, reached out to stroke the beloved names inscribed on the stone tablet, committing the moment to her photographic memory. The mutant powers she'd rejected and suppressed for all these years cried with her, part of her that she could not avoid. Pulling her hand away again, she closed her fist tightly. Ever so slowly, hand trembling, she started to open it again. She whispered conspiratively to the grave, as her tears finally fell.  
  
"You'll never guess where I've been, what I've done. I'm not sure if you'd approve, either of you..." Blaze risked a small, sad smile, before continuing. "But look at this, see what I've learned now." In her hand a tiny, perfect sphere of flame danced despite the rain, lighting up the day and her face like summer. "And I'm going to be a teacher, can you imagine? I have a home now, with the X-Men, I just..." She paused, shaking her pretty head slightly; "I just hope I can make you both proud..."  
  
#The End #  
  
A/N: Apologies for the lack of X-Men in this story, it couldn't be helped. I've been accused of this being a Mary Sue, and I'd just like to put in a word in my and Blaze's (Laura's) defence. My OCs all WORK for a living, I don't believe in giving characters an easy ride, and you could not pay me enough to want to be any of them. What happens to Blaze in this story is something she NEVER gets over, the first step on a slippery slope, marked by denial, crime, alcoholism and madness, not to mention some of the worst decision making imaginable.  
  
Don't believe me? Then I dare you to check out some more of my stories. The Fire and The Thief finds a sixteen-year-old Blaze in the wrong company in Paris. Alternatively, Dark is the Hour was my first fanfic, straight after which the graveyard scene in this is set. Or, if you're feeling brave, check out Overload. If by the end of that story I still haven't convinced you that Blaze is a serious character, I never will...  
  
To everyone who has supported Blaze and I over the last year and a half, thank you, Lamby. 


End file.
